1 George Gordon Byron. The Giaour. A FRAGMENT OF A TURKISH TALE. One fatal remembrance — one sorrow that throws Its bleak shade alike o'er our joys and our woes — To which Life nothing darker nor brighter can bring, For which joy hath no balm — and affliction no sting." — MOORE TO SAMUEL ROGERS, ESQ. AS A SLIGHT, BUT MOST SINCERE TOKEN OF ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS, RESPECT FOR HIS CHARACTER, AND GRATITUDE FOR HIS FRIENDSHIP, THIS PRODUCTION IS INSCRIBED, BY HIS OBLIGED AND AFFECTIONATE SERVANT, BYRON. London, May, 1813. 2 ADVERTISEMENT. The tale which these disjointed fragments present is founded upon circumstances now lee common in the East than formerly; either because the ladies are more circumspec than in the “olden time”, or because Christian have better fortune or less enterprise. The story, when entire, contained the adventures of female slave, who was thrown, in the Musulmans manner, into the sea for infidelity, and avenged by a young Venetian, her lover, at the time the Seven Islands were possesed by tee Republic of Venice, and soon after the Arnauts were beaten bach from the Morea, which they had ravaged for some time subsequent to the Russian invasion. The dessertion of the Mainotes, on being refused the plunder of Misitra, led to the abandonment of that enterprise; and to the desolation of the Morea; during which the cruelty exercised on all sides was unparalleled in the annals of the faithful. The Giaour No breath of air to break the wave That rolls below the Athenian's grave, That tomb which, gleaming o'er the cliff, First greets the homeward-veering skiff, High o'er the land he saved in vain; When shall such hero live again ? Fair clime! where every season smiles Benignant o'er those blessed isles, Which, seen from far Colonna's height, Make glad the heart that hails the sight, 3 And lend to loneliness delight. There mildly dimpling, Ocean's cheek Reflects the tints of many a peak Caught by the laughing tides that lave These Edens of the eastern wave: And if at times a transient breeze Break the blue crystal of the seas, Or sweep one blossom from the trees, How welcome is each gentle air That wakes and wafts the odours there! For there the Rose, o'er crag or vale, Sultana of the Nightingale, The maid for whom his melody, His thousand songs are heard on high, Blooms blushing to her lover's tale: His queen, the garden queen, his Rose, Unbent by winds, unchill'd by snows, Par from the winters of the west, By every breeze and season blest, Returns the sweets by nature given In softest incense back to heaven; And grateful yields that smiling sky Her fairest hue and fragrant sigh. And many a summer flower is there, And many a shade that love might share, And many a grotto, meant for rest, That holds the pirate for a guest; Whose bark in sheltering cove below 4 Lurks for the passing peaceful prow, Till the gay mariner's guitar Is heard, and seen the evening star; Then stealing with the muffled oar, Par shaded by the rocky shore, Eush the night-prowlers on the prey, And turn to groans his roundelay. Strange — that where Nature loved to trace, As if for gods, a dwelling-place, And every charm and grace hath mix'd Within the paradise she fix'd, There man, enamour'd of distress, Should mar it into wilderness, And trample, brute-like, o'er each flower That tasks not one laborious hour; Nor claims the culture of his hand To bloom along the fairy laud, But springs as to preclude his care, And sweetly woos him — but to spare! Strange — that where all is peace beside, There passion riots in her pride, And lust and rapine wildly reign To darken o'er the fair domain. It is as though the fiends prevail'd Against the seraphs they assail'd, And, fix'd on heavenly thrones, should dwell The freed inheritors of hell; So soft the scene, so form'd for joy, So curst the tyrants that destroy! 5 He who hath bent him o'er the dead Ere the first day of death is fled, The first dark day of nothingness, The last of danger and distress, (Before Decay's effacing fingers Have swept the lines where beauty lingers,) And mark'd the mild angelic air, The rapture of repose that's there, The fix'd yet tender traits that streak The languor of the placid cheek, And — but for that sad shrouded eye, That fires not, wins not, weeps not, now, And but for that chill, changeless brow, Where cold Obstruction's apathy Appals the gazing mourner's heart, As if to him it could impart The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon. Yes, but for these and these alone, Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour, He still might doubt the tyrant's power. So fair, so calm, so softly seal'd, The first, last look by death reveai'd! Such is the aspect of this shore; 'T is Greece, but living Greece no more! So coldly sweet, so deadly fair, We start, for soul is wanting there. Hers is the loveliness in death, That parts not quite with parting breath 6 But beauty with that fearful bloom, That hue which haunts it to the tomb Expression's last receding ray, A gilded halo hovering round decay, The farewell beam of Peeling pass'd away! Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth, Which gleams, but warms no more its cherish'd earth! Clime of the unforgotten brave! Whose land from plain to mountain-cave Was Freedom's home or Glory's grave! Shrine of the mighty! can it be, That this is all remains of thee ? Approach, thou craven crouching slave; Say, is not this Thermopylae ? These waters blue that round you lave,— Oh servile offspring of the free, Pronounce what sea, what shore is this ? The gulf, the rock of Salamis! These scenes, their story not unknown, Arise, and make again your own; Snatch from the ashes of your sires The embers of their former fires; And he who in the strife expires Will add to theirs a name of fear That Tyranny shall quake to hear, And leave his sons a hope, a fame, They too -will rather die than shame: For Freedom's battle once begun, 7 Bequeath'd by bleeding Sire to Son, Though baffled oft is ever won. Bear witness, Greece, thy living page! Attest it many a deathless age! While kings, in dusty darkness hid, Have left a nameless pyramid, Thy heroes, though the general doom Hath swept the column from their tomb, A mightier monument command, The mountains of their native land! There points thy Muse to stranger's eye The graves of those that cannot die! 'T were long to tell, and sad to trace, Each step from splendour to disgrace; Enough — no foreign foe could quell Thy soul, till from itself it fell; Yes! Self-abasement paved the way To villain-houds and despot sway. Whatt can he tell who treads thy shore ? No legend of thine olden time, No theme on which the Muse might soar? High as thine own in days of yore, When man was worthy of thy clime. The hearts within thy valleys bred, The flery souls that might have led Thy sons to deeds sublime, Now crawl from cradle to the grave, Slaves — nay, the bondsmen of a slave, And callous, save to crime; 8 Stain'd with each evil that pollutes Mankind, where least above the brutes; Without even savage virtue blest, Without one free or valiant breast, Still to the neighbouring ports they waft Proverbial wiles and ancient craft; In this the subtle Greek is found, For this, and this alone, renown'd. In vain might Liberty invoke The spirit to its bondage broke, Or raise the neck that courts the yoke: No more her sorrows I bewail, Yet this will be a mournful tale, And they who listen may believe, Who heard it first had cause to grieve. Far, dark, along the blue sea glancing, The shadows of the rocks advancing Start on the fisher's eye like boat Of island-pirate or Mainote; And fearful for his light caique, He shuns the near but doubtful creek: Though worn and weary with bis toil, And cumber'd with hia scaly spoil, Slowly, yet strongly, plies the oar, Till Port Leone's safer shore Receives him by the lovely light That best becomes an Eastern night. 9 . Who thundering comes on blackest steed, With slacken'd bit and hoof of speed ? Beneath the clattering iron's sound The cavern'd echoes wake around In lash for lash, and bound for bound; The foam that streaks the courser's side Seems gather'd from the ocean-tide: Though weary waves are sunk to rest, There's none within his rider's breast, And though to-morrow's tempest lower, 'Tis calmer than thy heart, young Giaour! I know thee not, I loathe thy race, But in thy lineaments I trace What time shall strengthen, not efface: Though young and pale, that sallow front Is scathed by fiery passion's brunt; Though bent on earth thine evil eye, Aa meteor-like thou glidest by, Eight well I view and deem thee one Whom Othman's sons should slay or shun. On — on he hasten'd, and be drew My gaze of wonder as he flew: Though like a demon of the night He pass'd, and vanish'd from my sight, His aspect and his air impress'd A troubled memory on my breast, 10 And long upon my startled ear Bung his dark courser's hoofs of fear.